


goosebumps but gay

by attack of the killer himbos (melodramatic_fratboi)



Series: haven't decided on a title yet [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: ??????, Alternate Universe - Bakery, Alternate Universe - College/University, Bisexual Dean Winchester, Cas is Neurodivergent, Case Fic, Dean's a whole professor ajfbsndhd, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Halloween, M/M, Minor peril, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn, a haunting in [name of cas' bakery as yet undecided], canon is for losers and heteros only, i will yeet his repressed ass out of the closet, idiots to lovers, idiots to usdiots, lmao rip idk, no beta we die like dean's canon character development, sexuality crisis! at the disco
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-21
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-18 04:15:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29603703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/melodramatic_fratboi/pseuds/attack%20of%20the%20killer%20himbos
Summary: are you a small business owner? were you tricked into buying a suspiciously cheap store by a shady realtor? are you now finding yourself being tormented by a malicious, possibly dead roommate?if you answered yes to any of these questions, contact your local ghosthunting brothers today!call now at 1-800-876-2397![the company will not be held liable if you fall in love with the repressed bisexual owner of the business]
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Series: haven't decided on a title yet [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2174907
Comments: 8
Kudos: 48





	1. kinda reads like a late 90s disney channel original movie

**Author's Note:**

> accidentally gave sam social anxiety now i am too scared to go back and see how weird i've made it
> 
> (i posted this yesterday but i've decided to split the whole thing up into parts instead of making it one multi-chapter fic so that it seems less daunting to me)

A week before the opening of his bakery, Castiel had found a bag of flour lying on the floor, unharmed. He thought nothing of it because sometimes things just fall and moved on with his life.

This was, naturally, a mistake.

A day later, as he was stocking up the pantry, two mixing bowls had clattered to the ground behind him. There had been no reported casualties and so, Castiel had simply returned the bowls to their shelf and gone back to arranging food colouring by hue.

Three days and after many more minor incidents involving objects attempting extreme sports around him, Castiel and Meg arrived at the bakery and found that every single light had blown out. Now, neither of them wanted to voice the thing they were both thinking because Castiel did not have the fucking energy to be dealing with an errant spirit right now, not this close to opening day, not when the realtor had sold him the definitely not ghost infested shop at definitely not ghost infested prices and so they firmly stated it was because their Edison bulbs had maybe had a particularly wild night, electrically speaking. It was not a hardship to replace them and within the day, they had functioning lights again.

If there was a spectre, a phantom or any other otherworldly presence that had made the bakery its home- which there absolutely fucking was not- it would just have to learn how to live with a roommate because if it wanted peace and privacy it should have made its needs known on the deed of purchase.

That night, after the bakery had been closed, the entity that lived there shook its head in dismay. Its new humans, it seemed, were content to not only live in denial and not appreciate the effort it had been putting in but they also wanted to very aggressively disbelieve that it was there at all.

The entity sighed dramatically, which resulted in a rumbling groan that echoed through the empty room and knocked down the chalkboard that had been hung up on the wall behind the display counter out of spite. A vase that sat on the counter under it was the first fatality of this skirmish.

It was another two gruelling weeks during which the humans had decided to try and will the entity away by ignoring it and pretending nothing out of the ordinary was happening, many broken plates, an entirely rearranged kitchen and one frightened customer later when Gabriel, the older brother, looked at Castiel and said, “I think you’ve got a pet ghost.”

It was not the word the entity would have chosen, but unlike _some_ people it knew how to acknowledge an undertaking.

It decided it liked Gabriel and to show that it made the chairs in the room levitate for a few seconds before letting them crash onto the floor.

“Ah, fuck,” Castiel said.

Ah, fuck, indeed.

* * *

  
  


The 25th of October found Sam sitting in John’s office, in the high backed leather chair, with his hands loosely clasped on the mahogany table in front of him, wearing a yellow button down, layered under a cable knit copper sweater and black pants.

Around him the office loomed large and spacious with an emerald settee lining one wall and a nearly overflowing bookshelf the other. A wood top coffee table with carved legs sat in front of the couch, on top of a hand woven Afghan carpet which had a floor lamp with a glass shade on one side and a small end table on the other. Behind Sam were two tall windows with heavy Prussian blue curtains to offset the warm white walls. A bronze plaque with their last name hung between them. It looked like a cross between a PI and a pastor’s office. Sam fidgeted uncomfortably.

Facing him were the Novak siblings. When they had spoken over the phone it was Gabriel who had called. Sam had thought he sounded older but looking at him now, he was probably only Dean’s age, give or take a few years. He was dressed probably casually in what look to be pants of some kind and an intricately embroidered shirt, maybe???? Sam, however, did recognise the leather jacket that had been thrown over the ensemble. Castiel, younger and less adventurous in his fashion choices, was in a pale pink button down and a pair of charcoal trousers, the beige trench coat he had worn on top now hanging on the back of his chair. Gabriel's hair was lighter, more auburn than Castiel's dark, almost black brown, his face narrower and sharper with a straight nose and thin lips. Gabriel also had amber coloured eyes, strangely golden hued in the light of the room while Castiel's were a bright, almost electric blue.

The peculiar characteristic binding them in similarity now was that they seemed neither frightened nor alarmed at having to have contacted the Winchesters for their services. Staunch skeptics were rare in the world now and the few who remained would not have voluntarily found themselves seeking Sam out unless they were scared beyond their wits, if they were alive at all. Usually, the people who had to ask the Winchesters to intervene showed at least some amount of trepidation, if not outright dread. Sometimes a few turned up looking harried and hassled. Occasionally they would be uneasy and discontent. However, the near total lack of fear on Casiel’s face and polite disinterest on Gabriel’s was throwing Sam for the smallest of loops, but he was not about to reveal that.

That choice turned out to be a wise one because the moment Sam asked, in what he hoped was a businesslike but not overt or practised tone, what the problem was, Castiel launched into recounting his tale of misery with such astonishing contempt and vitriol that Sam almost found himself feeling bad for what was obviously a poltergeist. Never had he encountered a person who was so downright _annoyed_ at a haunting that they had not even stopped for long enough to even consider any notion of terror.

Dean will absolutely love this dude, he thought inwardly.

He patiently waited for Castiel to finish his tirade of vexation as he described how acts that had initially been minor inconveniences that occurred only in the presence of him, his family and employees had ramped up to “shameless and honestly, absolutely uncalled for displays of bullshittery that scared away two patrons” while praying that his face did not show how fascinated Sam was by the amount of anger the man was working with. If it was possible to get rid of a poltergeist with sheer rage, Castiel would have succeeded ten times over by now.

“Have you interacted with the spirit directly?” Sam asked once Castiel was done and had taken a moment to marginally compose himself.

“My brother has taken to cursing it out and threatening violence upon it in increasingly elaborate ways,” Gabriel replied with a tiny twitch of glee at the corner of his mouth.

Castiel immediately shot him a death glare that would make anyone but a sibling tremble.

Sam crossed his ankles under the desk and wished Dean had not gotten held up at the university.

“That would explain the escalation,” Sam said, making eye contact with Castiel and then promptly worrying that it was too much. “You guys sound like you have a poltergeist, who are spirits that essentially just seek attention and will stop at nothing until they get it.”

“What happens once they get it?” Castiel asked, leaning forward, with a glint of murder in his eye.

Sam’s gaze flitted over to Gabriel who at least did not look like he was thinking about putting the poltergeist through a ghostly meat grinder. “Uh, well, see, the attention they receive is never enough, right? Because they don’t function with a basis of logic or rationality so they just keep becoming more hostile and belligerent until the humans in their space move out or uh, die, I suppose.” On the table, his hands felt clammy, so pulled them closer to himself.

This was the first case that they had taken since John’s death and now it had also become the first one where he had had to meet the clients all by himself. He was nervous that he would come off as an amateur, or that would say the wrong thing and accidentally piss the Novaks off. It did not help that a very tiny, absolutely miniscule part of him was finding Castiel intimidating as fuck.

He flinched ever so slightly as the blaze in Castiel’s azure eyes intensified. 

“I don’t think we’re quite ready to die or move out, yet,” Gabriel said, placing a placating hand on his brother’s arm. It resulted in an about 2% drop in the aura of absolute fury the younger Novak was radiating.

Sam shot him a grateful half smile. “Right, which is where we come in,” He shifted in his chair, relaxing a little because this portion of the conversation he was more practised at. “We’ll go over to your place so that we can dig around a little and confirm that is, in fact, a poltergeist or, you know, find out what it is if it isn’t that and then we, um, get rid of it.” 

Eh, it was kind of a dumb finish but at least it was factually correct.

“You’ll kill it?” It was the first time since their introduction that Castiel had sounded anything other than angry and somewhat manic hope was definitely an improvement.

“Yes,” Sam nodded. “Do you know about the history of the building? Were there any violent deaths or anything of that sort?”

Apparently that was the wrong thing to ask because Castiel vaulted straight up to wrath and clenched the armrest again. “No, my bastard realtor didn’t say anything at all.”

Sam’s eyes widened in panic, worried about sounding like a douchey teenager. Objectively, he understood and could empathise with Castiel’s reaction but subjectively, it was just a little bit funny, how unhinged and livid the man was. He settled on, “Er, okay, well, don’t worry. I’ll look into it and let you know what I find. Poltergeists aren’t exactly the same as ghosts but sometimes they can be manifestations of malicious spirits that sort of, uh, evolved into being able to warp the energy around them.”

Honestly, that did not sound too bad.

He was going to make Dean do the dishes for a week for leaving him alone like this.

He snuck a glance to his watch and saw that it was 23 minutes past 7 pm. His brother was running almost an hour late.

“Are poltergeists very hard to kill?” Gabriel enquired, crossing his legs. 

“No, so, it’s a standard salt and burn, if there are bones or um, an object they’re attached to. If there aren’t, however, we have spells and wards, but those need to be renewed to prevent escalation.”

Castiel drew in a breath and rested both palms on his knees. “How long do you think it will take until this is over?” the anticipation in his voice was palpable, knowledge that this would soon be over changing his demeanour again.

Sam took a second to consider the week ahead, the scheduling of Dean’s classes and his work. If things went off without too many obstacles, which was infrequent but not improbable, they would be able to wrap it up within the next few days. 

“So, we generally do a preliminary inspection to see what clues we can find, check any security footage, go over the whole place with our equipment to determine the cause of your experiences. Then, if we need to do any research, it might take a little more time, depending on how much information we have to work with. After that, the actual removal of the being doesn’t take more than a handful of hours,” Sam said, rattling off the same thing he had heard John and then Dean say over and over again, rules of the business that he had practised in front of the mirror because he had always been _that_ kid. “If you’re alright with a late visit, my brother and I can drive over to your bakery tomorrow itself. If not, we’ll do it this weekend, at whatever time is convenient for you.”

Sam huffed out a breath, emotionally patting himself because holy shit, he sounded like a whole adult right then. Or maybe a robot salesman. God, what if he sounded like a robot salesman. Fuck.

“Tomorrow works for me,” Castiel said immediately, the agreement leaving his mouth almost before Sam had even finished talking. “We stay open till eleven p.m. but I can close early tomorrow? Around eight, maybe?”

Gabriel looked fondly amused at his brother’s impatience.

Sam smiled, hopefully professionally but maybe also just the teensy bit hysterically relieved that the meeting was drawing to a close. “Eight sounds okay. We'll call you before we leave.”

“Okay, cool. Is there anything that I need to do in the meantime?”

Sam shook his head, disturbing the few strands of hair that hung about his face. “No, you’ll have to let the activity carry on without interference until we can investigate. But, tomorrow we’ll give you some temporary wards that should make everything stop till we’re done.”

“Oh thank god,” Castiel exclaimed, visibly relieved, shoulders sagging. He relaxed so suddenly, even at the mention of interim respite, that it felt like a tangible change. Beside him, Gabriel softened, directing a grateful smile Sam’s way.

Huh, the dude’s like, just maybe a little nice to look at, Sam’s brain helpfully supplied him with, wildly out of nowhere.

Instantly, Sam flushed in self consciousness.

Oof, this was not the right time to randomly start crushing on a client.

“Do you guys charge an advance or will I be paying you in full at the end?” Castiel asked, interrupting Sam’s minor crisis and also bringing up the money thing which meant he did not have to, thank fuck for that because he still found it awkward to just insert it into a conversation.

“We take a ten percent advance, which you can complete via either online or offline payment and then you’ll be paying once we wrap the case up,” He replied.

Yeah he definitely sounded like Siri now.

It took them another few minutes to complete their transaction and then finally say their goodbyes, Castiel sincerely thanking Sam for his help as he left with a confirmation that Sam would call him the following day in case of any change in their plans. 

When he was finally alone, it was nearly ten past eight. He unlocked his phone to three messages from Dean, apologising for missing the meeting, telling him not to freak out and then that he was picking up Korean for dinner. The last text was sent at 7:50 pm.

**SW:**

**When will you be home?**

**Dean:**

**in like 10 mins**

**u can cry about the meeting over kimchi fried rice**

**SW:**

**Did you get me gimmari?**

**Don’t text and drive**

**Dean:**

**yee yee**

**then stop texting me doofus**

**do we have any ice cream at home**

**can u order some if we don't**

Sam left him on read and went upstairs to change his clothes. They had half a tub of dark chocolate and raspberry ice-cream in the freezer that Dean would be forfeiting all rights to as payment for making Sam go through the meeting alone. 


	2. rye and cry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's 8 am, it took me nearly 20 hours to write this and like 4 of those were spent trying to name this cursed bakery  
> i haven't gone to sleep yet so i'm posting this as is, i might come back to it later to edit
> 
> 23/2/21: i've edited it and made minor changes. i'm not entirely happy with some portions but fretting over them isn't helping so i'll leave them as is for now.

Dean Winchester has many positive qualities. This is a fact that will be corroborated by almost anyone who knows him. Some would, of course, need to be bribed or held at knife point, but really, should you be focusing on the accounts of hostile witnesses? One could start listing said qualities but that is a story for another time. For now, we must focus on one of Dean’s negative attributes, his near total lack of punctuality. It is not a habit born of, as one would be inclined to believe, an inability to tell time, although sometimes it does seem like that. Dean has, quite simply, just never shown up anywhere- except at the college, with much griping and whining about early mornings- at the right hour. Running a few minutes or handful of hours late is merely a quirky personality trait.

Today is one of the better days, Dean thinks, glancing at the clock on his dashboard which shows that he is only ten minutes behind schedule. In his defense, being a professor had somehow turned out to be more unpredictable than his side hustle and really, how could he have possibly predicted that he would accidentally become the emotional support garbage adult of his department and have to occasionally cater to his students’ mental health crises (honestly, it was baffling that they ever came to him for advice, when Dean pretty much relied on spite and dad jokes to get him through the day). Besides, he has a giant apology Americano ready for Sam. Plain black coffee, really, is more of a punishment than a reward, Dean has no idea how Sam even drinks that bitter, sewer water tasting monstrosity but then again, his brother has never been known for having good taste.

He pulls up to the curb where Sam is waiting outside his office, talking to Jessica Moore, who Sam had a crush on and whined to Dean about it for days when he started working alongside her. It had faded out eventually, as such things tend to do, fizzling into a casual friendship. Sam waves her a goodbye and then turns to give Dean an unimpressed look as he gets into the car.

“You’re late,” He says in greeting, settling into his seat.

“I’m aware, Captain Obvious,” Dean replies, handing Sam his coffee. “Here, take your ass juice.”

He is met with a look of disgusted disapproval but Sam accepts the caffeine, tardiness forgiven.

“Do you have the address?” Sam takes a hideously large gulp of his hell drink and Dean shudders.

“Yeah, it’s already in the GPS.”

He starts driving again, heading towards the bakery they have to go investigate. Sam had told him about the Novaks last evening, while scarfing down his dubu jorim, mentioning at least eight separate times how incredibly pissed off the owner, Castiel was, at having to deal with the suspected poltergeist. He had also, with a healthy dose of indignated displeasure, let Dean know how much he did not appreciate being made to interact with people all by himself, especially not with ones he had never met before. When Dean had pointed out that the obvious absence of the catastrophic failure that Sam had been so anxiously afraid of, his brother had scowled at him and stolen his mandu.

“Did you tell the owners that we’d be running a little late?” Dean asks as they stop at a red light.

Sam shifts in his seat, throwing a smug smile Dean’s way. “I knew you’d be late so I told you that we had to go there at 7:30, instead of 8.”

The clock shows that it is a quarter past seven in the evening. According to their GPS Celeste, the bakery is forty-two minutes away.

Dean flips Sam off. “You’re such a bitch. What if I’d been early?”

“Then I would have assumed that hell froze over and the apocalypse had been unleashed in the face of which, killing a poltergeist would have been quite moot.” Sam takes a self satisfied sip of his cleaning fluid, draining the cup.

“Sam, I will kick you out of the car and make you walk to Celeste.” Dean grumbles disgruntledly, miffed by Sam’s blatant disrespect.

“Okay, mom.”

They drive for a while in silence, the roads flashing by them. Almost every building they pass is decked in Halloween decorations, a blur of jack-o-lanterns and skeletons, clowns and witches, bats, spiders and other such creepy, spooky things that people peddle out every year as if they are not plagued by ghosts, ghouls and a smorgasbord of other undead and ungodly creatures on the daily.

Dean has always grouched about Halloween, a stance probably born from years of not getting to celebrate as a child and having to face every monster that people gleefully celebrate before he had even hit puberty. The crass commercialisation of the very real horrors others have been through, horrors that he has spent his entire life fighting against, and their trivialization into a day, which is not even a real holiday, to sell candy and cheap costumes by corporations makes Dean’s blood curdle. Of course, there is also a part of him that secretly rejoices in peoples’ ability to take what frightens them and make them into something that they can derive joy and amusement out of. But, that is not a sentiment that he will ever voice out loud. He, after all, has an image to maintain.

A sudden thought strikes Dean.

“You absolute asshole, you’ve done this to me before, haven’t you?”

“And I will do it again.”

“Dick.”

Dean glares at the steering wheel.

Sam radiates self-approval from the passenger’s seat.

“Did you look up the building’s sordid past? Do we have any leads on who our telekinetic foe might be?” Dean inquires when he feels like he has sufficiently marinated in his annoyance.

They have now turned onto the more upscale part of town, boutique shops, bodegas with only singular nouns as names, and colonial era row houses on either side of them. Dean scoffs at an aggressively pastel coloured cafe that is just called Whisk.

Sam snorts out a laugh, following Dean’s line of sight. Then he says, “Yeah, I found out that it was built in the ‘30s, by a man named Luca Giordano, as a bakery that existed for nearly sixty-seven years.” Here Dean lets out an impressed whistle and Sam nods, before continuing, “The family went into debt after Luca’s death in 1989 because the son, Marco could not manage his father’s business. It dwindled on for another decade after that, until Sofia, Luca’s granddaughter shut it down and moved away in 2001. It was bought once after that, to be turned into a chain store for some burger joint called Doug’s Diner but then it went defunct in 2006 so that didn’t pan out. It has pretty much sat empty and unused since it was initially sold by the Giordano’s.”

Dean stops at another red light and turns to look at Sam. “So, do you think it’s grandpa Giordano who’s mad that his space is being taken over by some hipster who likes to drink almond milk lattes?”

“It probably is Luca but I would also like to point out that I’ve seen you inhale vegan ice cream.” Sam says, rolling his eyes.

“Those are two unrelated facts, so you haven’t actually made a point, douchebag.”

“You’re a flaming hypocrite, assface.”

The GPS tells them to take a left and then they are on North Cedar Road. They cross more row houses and brownstones, a florist, a pet shop and a convenience store. All of it looks charmingly old fashioned and ridiculously expensive. Dean thinks that either the Novaks come from money or the real estate agent must have been very desperate to sell off the place. 

The bakery is located on the corner of the street, the bottom floor of a three storey building that definitely looks its age, not rundown or shabby, but old in the way of a cheerful grandparent who would sneak you an extra slice of cake and lets you stay awake past your bedtime. The brick exterior has been left untouched, slight discolorations of stone standing testament to the years the structure has lived through. The storefront itself, lit in warm, yellow light from lanterns hung from the wall and the glow coming from within the bakery, has a large display window and glass door, both trimmed with wood painted a dark, rich shade of teal. A white awning separates the façade of the bakery from the floors above it. Under the display window and on either side of the door are vibrantly coloured potted plants of a variety of sizes and heights that Dean does not know the names of. The word Celeste is written in a simple Serif font on the center of the valance. It does not, in any way, look haunted but, a building's appearance does not always disclose the horrors or lack thereof held within it.

As they drive up to it, Dean notices that the Halloween decorations on the outside have been left to a minimum, a few spiders on the plants, bats hung from the awning, jack-o-lanterns on either side of the door. The choice is, admittedly, a little funny considering their current predicament.

“It looks far less pretentious than the name would suggest,” Dean says.

“Don’t lie Dean, this looks exactly like the kind of place you would try and come to every day.” Sam replies, shooting Dean a teasing smirk.

“Shut up, it doesn’t.” They get out of the car, hefting their bags on their shoulders. “Depends on how good their brioche is.” Dean concedes, with a huff.

They walk up to Celeste, Sam pushing open the door and are immediately welcomed by the sound of a ringing bell- which, quaint- and an aroma that makes Dean want to moan out loud, just a little bit. The yeasty tang of freshly baked bread, with underlying hints of vanilla and coffee envelops them like an embrace, like fleece blanket on a winter evening. Like any normal person would, Dean stops inside the door and basks in the love his olfactory sense is receiving.

“Ah, you’re here!” The deep, gravelly voice of a man says, pulling Dean out of the momentary haze the scent had lulled him into. 

He looks in time to see the owner of the voice emerge from behind the counter, a dark haired man clad in a blue shirt and jeans. 

Sam says a polite hello and introduces the man who’s shaking his hand as Castiel Novak.

“It smells amazing in here,” Dean says in lieu of a greeting, shaking Castiel’s hand as well, a firm one, two pump.

In response, Castiel smiles, the corners of his blue eyes crinkling ever so slightly. “Oh, thank you, you kind of stop noticing after a while.”

My god, his eyes are such an alien blue, Dean thinks, a little startled.

“That must suck,” He replies. And then, “Oh, I’m Dean, by the way.”

Castiel nods in acknowledgement, a curious expression flitting over his face for a second.

They walk further into the shop, which is larger than Dean would have guesses, longer than it is wide. Directly in front of them is a muted sage green, wood framed glass display case that only has a few items left in it. Attached to it is a white marble top counter with an old fashioned cash box, next to a computer on the other end of it. Behind it is a chalkboard, hung on the brick wall that lists the fresh breads of the day, what’s available daily and their prices.

They are surprisingly reasonable, Dean notes.

Beneath the menu is another counter with an industrial coffee machine, a blender and two hanging shelves which are empty at the moment. Next to it is a metal door that leads to the back of the shop. The wall on the left is entirely lined with bread racks, now only sparse dotted with a few loaves, each row neatly labelled with handwritten cards. Another tall marble counter spans the length of the store window, with low backed navy blue suede stools in front it. There is a refrigerated glass display cabinet against the right hand side of the store, the remaining space covered in plants, some in pots on the floor and others hanging from the wall. There four more tables there, wood topped and surrounded by upholstered chairs in various muted colours. It is incredibly cosy and homey and while Dean will never, ever say it out loud, he’s just a little smitten, the tiniest bit.

“You’ve got a beautiful place,” Sam remarks. 

Dean watches with fascination as Castiel smiles again, a tiny, shy thing, his cheeks warming up at the compliment.

Before he can respond, the metal door swings open and two people, a man and woman walk in. They notice the three standing in the middle of the bakery, and come up to them.

“Hey, Sam,” The man says, “Good to see you again.”

“You too, Mr. Novak.” Sam says and Dean knows something’s up because he is doing his I’m a real professional adult voice.

“Oh, please, call me Gabriel,” Gabriel waves a hand in the air, as if trying to gesture Sam’s awkwardness away. 

Beside him, Sam nods, going a little wide-eyed before his mouth ticks up into a miniscule smile and _oh_ , Dean absolutely knows what’s up.

They’re going to talk about this later.

“I’m Dean,” He comes to his brother’s rescue, shaking Gabriel and then the woman’s hands.

“I’m Meg,” She says, “We own the place together.”

“We won’t for very long if this, uh, can I say the p-word out loud?” Castiel asks, stopping midway through his sentence.

“Oh, yeah. A poltergeist doesn’t know that we gave it that name, so it’s safe to say it.” Dean states. “And you will hopefully not be driven out of here anytime soon, if we’re successful.”

Castiel gives him another one grin and okay, even Dean can admit, it is very, um, pleasant to look at.

“Would you guys like some coffee or something before we start?” Gabriel asks, drifting towards the counter.

“Uh, sure,” Sam replies, a tad overenthusiastically, but the kid’s got the right energy. 

He’s also soon to be hopped up on caffeine.

“Make one for me as well, Gabe,” Meg says.

She has dark eyes and a round face, with a sharp chin and cheeks that plump up as she shoots Gabriel a smile. Her hair is dark, too, and cut short, falling just past her jaw. She is wearing black yoga pants and an oversized red hoodie, in contrast to Castiel's more formal attire and to Gabriel's outfit, which Dean is not entirely sure he can accurately describe but they definitely do count as clothes in some universe, he supposes.

“Come, have a seat,” Castiel leads them over to one of the tables and they sit down.

The chair’s are ridiculously comfortable. 

Dean does _not_ hope he gets to come back for non work related purposes at a later date.

“How do you take your coffee, guys?” Gabriel calls out from behind the counter.

“Just black for me and Dean’s with milk and an ungodly amount of sugar.”

Yeah, Sam’s flirting. And extremely unsubtly checking Gabriel out.

Dean’s got teasing fodder for at least the next week. Two weeks, if he rations it carefully.

“So, how was the activity today?” Dean asks, trying to bring Sam back into the actual work they came here to do.

“It hasn’t gotten any worse since yesterday but it did break two of our serving plates today,” The change in Castiel’s demeanour is sudden and with context Dean understands what Sam was talking about last night. 

“Okay, so, we’ll give you wards to stop that until we can find the bones or whatever haunted object this poltergeist is attached to.”

Their conversation is punctuated by the sound of the coffee machine.

“Uh, bones?” Meg raises an eyebrow, looking at them dubiously.

“A poltergeist is not always a human spirit but sometimes they are manifestations of the leftover energy of whatever person inhabited a place before you. Usually, like with ghosts, this happens due to a violent or untimely death or if a deceased person is unable to let go. In that case, if we can find their remains, we salt ‘em and torch ‘em so that their ties to our world are severed. The same logic applies for haunted objects.” Dean explains easily, glossing over the gorier details of the venture..

“Did you find anything out who it is?” Castiel inquires.

Gabriel joins them, setting a tray of five steaming mugs in front of them. He hands Sam his cup of battery acid, Meg a frothy cappuccino and Dean a latte, a small pot of sugar cubes and a, “You can decide what ungodly means.”

Sam snorts.

He grins back and grabs the remaining latte, which leaves the cup of what looks to be green tea for Castiel.

Dean adds three sugar cubes in his mug, receiving an amused look from the entire group.

“Coffee tastes like gasoline to me otherwise,” He shrugs with indignation.

“I agree,” Castiel tilts his cup towards. “That’s why I rarely ever drink it.”

“You don’t drink coffee because you’re a loser, Clarence,” Meg comments, bumping her shoulder against Castiel’s. “At least Dean still drinks it, even if it’s 70% sugar.”

Dean considers taking a large sip out of spite but then he does not want to risk burning his tongue.

“Right, okay, stop bullying us for a second, Meg, we have work to do.” Castiel side eyes Meg and receives a patronizing look in response.

Sighing, he motions at Sam and Dean to continue.

Sam tells them about the Giordanos, about Luca and the death of his business. “His grave is in the St. Peter’s Cemetery, we’ll go there and exhume his remains on the weekend. He does not have any family left so we will have to ask the church that owns it for permission.” He adds. 

“Does it take very long?”

“No, not usually. It’s a fairly regular occurrence so most places only require you to fill in a form and get it stamped.” 

The temperature of the room drops abruptly as Sam talks. A muffled clattering noise comes from the back of the store.

Sam makes eye contact with Dean.

“That better not be another one of my fucking mixing bowls,” Castiel declares in a sharp tone.

“Do you think it knows what’s happening here?” Meg takes a sip of her coffee, her eyes sweeping over the room, as if she hopes to spot something out of the ordinary.

“Maybe, maybe not. It is possible it may have recognised its name.” This is really good coffee, Dean thinks, as he inhales the aroma. It’s still too hot for him to drink. “What’s the frequency of activity?”

“It started with once every few days but it’s increased to three or four times a day over the month.” Castiel tilts his head to one side, an expression of worry on his face, a frown line appearing between his brows. He looks, inexplicably, like a puppy fretting over a ball that’s disappeared under a cabinet.

Holy shit, that’s a weird place to take this, Dean chastises his own brain.

“And no one’s been physically harmed yet?”

Castiel shakes his head. “No, not yet.”

Dean hums, finally takes a sip of his coffee, savouring the rich sweet taste that dances on his tongue. Yeah, that’s a fucking brilliant brew. “That’s good, that means our paranormal pest isn’t very strong enough to manipulate human bodies yet.”

Sam kicks Dean’s foot under the table for his alliteration. Dean kicks him back.

“Okay, what we’ll do is go over the place with our EMF meters, just to test any changes in electromagnetic waves and then we’ll check your CCTV footage to see if there’s any distortions. Once we’re done Sam and I will draw the wards onto the walls. We use chalk and washable paint so you’ll be able to remove it easily once all this is over.” He looks around the table, as he does when he teaches, to see if anyone has any questions.

“Do you think the camera will have even recorded anything? Don’t spirits usually mess that kind of stuff up?” Gabriel asks, holding Sam’s gaze.

“We check for moments when the footage is warped, like if it blacks out or the time skips over. Random changes are more telling, sometimes, than a seamless recording.” Sam answers.

Castiel and Meg exchange a significant look.

“It’ll get done quicker if we split up. Sam, do you want to get the back room?” Dean silently hopes Gabriel can pick up on the bone that is being thrown his way.

Sam nods his assent, finishing up the last of his acetone. Dean’s the only one at the table with more than half of his drink left.

“Come on, Sam, I’ll go with you. The back is a little tricky to navigate.”

Bingo.

They get up then, Gabriel and Sam vanishing behind the metal door.

Gabriel fills out his jeans well, Dean observes. He can see the appeal there.

“Your brother may not come back in one piece,” Castiel remarks dryly.

“Might do him some good,” Dean chuckles. Knowing Sam, he will probably just cry about it for a few weeks, without acting on it in any way until it dies out on its own. He loves his brother but the boy wouldn’t know what to do with romantic advances if they smacked him in the face.

He takes this EMF meter out of the bag, standing up from the chair. “Can you pull up the security footage for me?”

“Yes, sure.”

Castiel takes his mug and goes over to the counter, while Meg joins Dean as he begins to walk around the room, EMF meter in one hand, his cup in the other. The device picks up the spike in energy as soon as it turns out, indicating the upticks in the surroundings with sharp, high pitched beeping.

“Whoa, what does that mean?” Meg asks, startled into alarm by the noise.

“Just confirms that there is supernatural activity in the building, nothing major to worry about,” Dean replies.

“That does sound like something major to worry about, Dean,” Castiel voices with a distracted, amused huff.

Dean turns his way and finds electric blue eyes on him. “Well, true, but there isn’t much it can do now that we can’t combat,” Dean flushes, feeling flustered at the attention being directed towards him. Then, he remembers a thought he had had upon arrival. “Are the floors above this empty?”

Castiel shakes his head, “No, we live there.”

“You own the whole building?”

“Yes, it was much cheaper than we expected, which, in hindsight, should have made us take pause.”

“The building was empty for years before y’all moved in, right? I don’t think anyone knew it was haunted.”

“So why’s it happening now?” Castiel, for the first time, in the entire evening, sounds troubled.

“Lost souls don’t like having anyone in their space. It’s not really about _you_ , specifically. It’s more that they aren’t able to move on and thus perceive any change to their environment as a threat. You know, it’s like, you’ve been chilling here for decades, had to watch your business that you built from the ground up die, unable to do anything as your own grandkid sells it off, then the house you made stays neglected for years and boom suddenly three young millennials show up and start changing the only constant you’ve had so far by opening up a hipster bakery,” Dean softens his voice, a habit picked up from raising Sam and then working with his young students. “But honestly, you won’t be stuck with it forever, we’ll make sure of it.” He aims a reassuring smile towards Castiel.

“Or maybe he’s just a homophobe,” Meg titters beside him.

“Entirely possible, the man was from the ‘30s.” Castiel mirrors her mirth, the unease fading from his features. “Do you want to go through all of the security footage, Dean?”

(Dean put's a pin that comment for later, much, much later, because the implications provide certain opportunities he has not had the courage to explore yet.)

“Start with rewinding back to when we heard something fall in the kitchen and if it shows us nothing, we’ll search through more.” As he approaches the till, the EMF meter goes wild, letting out rapid, staccato beeps. “This came with the building?”

“Yeah, we found it in a storage closet and decided to keep it. Should we not have?” Meg responds, uncertainty tinged with disquiet colouring her tone.

“Is there anything else that belonged to the previous owners?”

“No, just this.”

Dean looks at the cash register, taking in the intricately carved brass and the antique keys and lever on it. If this is the haunted object burning it down would be a hell of a task. “Well, let’s hope this isn’t our haunted object.”

Castiel looks him dead in the eye. It is infinitesimally unnerving. “And if it is?”

So maybe he is just as attached to it as Luca.

“Then I’ll come here once every few months and renew the ward I put on it.” And Dean’s not about to be the person to stand between a baker and his spirit-plagued, Great Depression era cashbox.

Meg joins them too, hopping up onto the counter, resting an elbow on Castiel’s shoulder while Dean goes to stand behind him. 

Dean is close enough that he can smell the lingering vestiges of aftershave and cologne on the man.

His stomach gives an odd lurch.

Fuck, he knew the caffeine would screw him over.

They watch the footage together, with the monitor angled so that Meg can see without having to lean too far back. They have a view of the interior and exterior of the bakery and of the kitchen. It rewinds to 8:57 p.m. when Luca had decided to say and they watch as the feed for the kitchen cuts out at 8:57:37p.m. all at once, just as a bowl begins to fall and then picks back up at 8:58:08 p.m., with the bowl on the floor.

“Gotcha!” Dean exclaims. 

“Do you want to keep watching?” Castiel asks.

“No, we don’t need to. It’ll be the same. Poltergeists are invisible so they won’t show up on camera.” Dean’s eyes stray, for a split second, to the rise and fall of Castiel’s shoulders, to the soft looking hair at the name of neck.

His insides to that weird thing again.

God, please don’t let me be sick, he hopes.

Maybe he added too much sugar.

“You know, I had told Cassie to call you guys after Halloween,” Gabriel’s voice comes into the room as he returns with Sam, who has got a dopey grin plastered on his face. “He could have capitalised on the whole ghost thing, made good money off the gimmick but no, my brother starts going off about property damage and a ruined reputation like a boring adult. As if a few broken plates can’t be replaced.” He stops before Castiel. “As if hipsters won’t come flocking at the promise of an authentic haunting experience.” He smirks and waggles his eyebrows at his brother.

“Truly, Clarence, we could have called it Toast and Ghost,” Meg supplies, ruffling his hair.

Castiel shrugs her off, huffing loudly and then reaching up to fix his hair.

Dean’s eyes are immediately drawn to the paths the long fingers make through the dark strands.

It's undoubtedly Sam's, somehow.

“Dead Crumbs,” Gabriel helpfully adds.

“Night of the Living Bread,” Sam says, in a slightly alarmed tone, as if he had not expected to speak the words out.

Gabriel looks at him with uncontrolled delight encouraging up a red cheeked smile from Sam.

“Bread and Dread,” Dean utters, catching the glimpse Sam focuses on him. He raises one eyebrow in question and Sam blinks away the question, stashing it for later.

“Did you guys get it out of your system? Do we have any more bread puns I should be worried about?” Castiel demands, without any real heat to it.

“I loaf you,” Gabriel says, without batting an eyelash, giving Castiel a teasing pat on his head. 

“You’re absolutely terrible,” Castiel groans. 

“What did you find, Sam?” Meg asks, ignoring Castiel.

“EMF went off the charts.”

And that brought Dean back to a question he had almost asked earlier before getting derailed. “Do you guys have any activity in your apartments?”

“No, it’s just been here till now,” Gabriel says. "We were wondering why it's limited to here as well, but we did not want to accidentally make it worse."

“That means he’s weaker than I had thought, if it’s localised to a single floor.” Dean declares, heading back to the table to get his bag. “Come on Sam, we’ll do the wards.”

It only takes them a few minutes to do those, drawing the symbols on the side of the metal door that faces the kitchen and behind the glass display case that sits on the back counter. Dean also adds one on the back of the till, just as an extra precaution.

It is past nine-thirty when they wrap up at last, the paint already dried on their protective sigils.

“Hey, do you guys have any brioche?” Sam asks, just as they are about to leave. “Dean’s got a thing for it.”

Dean narrows his eyes at his brother. If this is a flirtation tactic, Dean does not get it.

“Yeah, we should have a couple of loaves left,” Castiel says, twisting to take stock of the rack on the left. He spots the bread in question and goes to get it.

Dean shrugs to himself, not like he is ever going to say not to the buttery goodness of fresh brioche.

Castiel snaps on a pair of gloves and lifts up the loaf, brings it back to the counter to wrap it in parchment and then puts it in a brown paper bag. “Here you go, Dean,” He holds the packed loaf out for Dean to take. “It’s on the house.”

“Thank you,” Dean smiles, grateful.

“Of course,” Cas murmurs. “Also, if I had to have a haunted bakery, I would have definitely would have called it Bread and Dread,” This he says in a low voice, only loud enough for Dean to hear, his lips quirking up in secretive acknowledgement, eyes alight.

Dean beams at him, choosing now to attribute the wee twinge he feels not to caffeine fist fighting his insides but to [redacted]. 

There will be time to obsess over this later.

They walk out to the Impala together, Dean with Cas and Meg while Sam trails behind with Gabriel. 

“We’ll let you guys know as soon as the church approves the exhumation. One of us will come over and be with you while the bones are being burnt. We’ll remove the wards after that but just in case anything goes wrong, you should remove as many glass dishes and other breakables out of the bakery as possible.” Dean explains as they stop near the car.

“Alright, we’ll do that,” Meg answers.

“Don’t worry too much, okay? The wards we gave you are very strong and will withstand all of the standard problems,” Deans directs this specifically at Cas, who had begun to gnaw on his bottom lip.

Dean’s brain definitely does not react to that.

“Thank you, again, for the bread.” Dean opens his door and then gets in to unlock Sam’s. "We'll see y'all later."

“Of course, Dean,” Cas says, from the curb. “Thank you for coming over today. Have a good night.”

Sam waves a goodbye to Gabriel, climbing into the car and then they are pulling away, heading back home.

“So,” Dean begins just as they have made it out of North Cedar Road. “We have shit to discuss when we get home.”


	3. yeet or be yeeted

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well fuck my hand slipped and now y'all have this 9.4k+ monstrosity  
> this is pretty much where the plot ends, it's just gonna be ~fun exciting things~ after this  
> it's very dialogue heavy so y'all have been warned in advance
> 
> posting this unedited, might come back and clean it up later
> 
> [if you guys spot any mistakes, please let me know in the comments]  
> [also i had forgotten about the whole celeste middleton thing but i'm not about to go and rename the bakery it's tormented me enough]

“If I have to talk then so do you,” Sam says when they walk into their house.

So, needless to say, they do not talk about it. Not that night and not for the next three days they spend waiting for the church to approve the exhumation. In fact, if it had been left up to the brothers’ powers, they would have left it unacknowledged for a tediously long time.

On the uncharacteristically cold morning of the 29th of October, Dean walks into the kitchen, cell phone in hand. It is past 9 am, which means it is still too early to be awake on a Sunday. There should have been laws in place that allowed Dean to at least sleep in till noon on the weekends but _no_ , Sam wanted to do _yoga_ and Dean don’t be a sourpuss, I literally know you like doing it no one thinks you’re cool for pretending to hate working out.

Of course, Dean liked yoga with Sam as a concept and he would enumerate why in a bulleted list:

  * It did not involve running


  * It did not involve being near sweaty gym equipment with dudebros whose sex noises and lifting weights noises were identical
  * Being stretchy kinda slapped
  * Something something good for your body and helped with stress and he always felt better after having done it 
  * One time he had passed out on the yoga mat while doing savasana and he was hoping it would happen again



So, yeah, in theory it was great, good, solid. In practise, however, staying in bed, under his covers, won by an exceeding margin.

The Saboteur of Slumber is at the counter right now, cutting up the previous night’s leftover chicken to add it to the omelet he is making for breakfast.

Dean eyes the pile of spinach resting happily in a bowl with suspicion. Vegetables are his enemy (except potatoes and broccoli because he is a normal person who enjoys fun things).

“So the people from the St. Peter’s said we can dig up the homophobic baker tomorrow after midnight.” Dean says, stealing some of the chicken Sam’s heaped on the chopping board. “Will you call the Novaks and let them know?” 

“Sure, I’ll text Gabriel in a minute,” Sam points the knife at Dean in an (possibly) empty threat, moving the remaining chicken away, and turns to grab the frying pan from where it’s hanging on the wall. A moment too late, he comprehends his own words.

“Oh, so we’re texting-” Dean tries to latch on without missing a beat, a wolfish grin starting to appear on his face.

“What did Castiel whisper to you?” Sam cuts his brother off immediately, an eyebrow raised in challenge. 

“You’re an insufferable asswipe,” Dean glares at him, peeved.

“You literally started it, moron,” Sam counters.

In retaliation, Dean attempts to snatch some more chicken but Sam blocks him off with this exceptional bulk.

(Dean should consider getting younger siblings being taller than the elder ones outlawed along with having to wake up early.)

“He said if he had a haunted bakery, he’d name it Bread and Dread,” Dean mumbles as they sit down with their food. He resolutely does not make eye contact with his brother.

Sam takes a delighted bite of his toast.

They eat for some time in a comfortable but charged silence.

“Gabriel asked me if I would have dinner with him once we’re done with the case,” Sam announces, taking a large swallow of his coffee. He does not look at Dean either.

Dean stabs a bit of Sam’s omelet with his fork, stuffing it into his mouth before his brother can react.

“It doesn’t mean anything, it was just a joke or whatever.” Dean claims, when they are about halfway done through their meal. “I’ve never even really spoken to the dude, I’m just paranormal pest control.”

Sam wants to disagree, he remembers the baker shamelessly ogling his brother while he was reaching up to draw the ward on the wall. He chooses to remain quiet and mop up some of the hot sauce off Dean’s plate with a piece of his egg instead.

“I kinda freaked out and didn’t give him a real answer,” Sam confesses after they are done eating and have begun to do the dishes. His voice is small and subdued, embarrassment colouring his tone.

Dean wipes down the mug he is handed. He nudges his shoulder against Sam’s and offers, “You can take him to the cemetery with you, if you want. I can stay back in the shop with Meg and Cas.”

Sam smiles, his shy one that has not changed since he was a child. “I have his number, you should call him up and let him know we’ll be there tomorrow,” He responds, as he washes the plates they had used.

In the bright autumn sunlight streaming in through the open window, Dean’s cheeks warm up. He dries the frying pan with the kitchen towel in his hand before putting it back on its hook. “Uh, sure, thanks,” He says once he is finished with his task.

A minute later, when Dean has walked back to the counter and almost been lulled into a false sense of security, Sam bares his teeth in a shark-like smirk. “Don’t think I didn’t notice what you called him.” He teases, with a glint in his eyes.

“Don’t think I didn’t notice that you’re trying to avoid texting Gabriel by making me call,” Dean smirks right back.

Sam smacks him with the sodden dish towel.

In his bedroom, away from Sam’s juvenile jabs, Dean dials Cas’ number. It rings enough times that Dean almost considers calling back later but just as he is about to disconnect, Cas picks up.

“Hello?” The voice that comes on is sleep rough and deep, the greeting mumbled out in the bleary tone of every person who has ever been awoken by their phone.

The gravel of it sits pretty in Dean’s stomach.

“Hey, it’s Dean Winchester,” He says, ignoring the ~thoughts~ his body wants him to have. “I’m sorry if I woke you up.”

Castiel replies after a full minute that Dean speds wondering if he had fallen back asleep. “No, it’s okay. I just had a long night.”

Dean frowns in sympathy. It seems as though he has lived long enough to become what he condemned, now a Saboteur of Slumber himself. “I hate to be the bearer of bad news, then, but you’re going to have another one tomorrow because we got permission to exhume Giordano’s body after 12:00 am.”

Dean crawls directly into the patch of sunlight falling on his bed, stretching his legs out in front of him.

Through the ever so slightly tinny noise of the speaker, the change in Cas’ wakefulness is instant and exceedingly amusing to Dean. “Oh? Already?”

“Yes, the church did not want to wait till Halloween night because a lot of kids sneak into the cemetery and they don’t want anyone to see a body being dug up.” Dean informs him.

“That’s a loser move,” Castiel comments, his light-hearted exasperation audible. “I bet those kids would have loved to see that. Can you imagine the stories they’d be able to spin for the rest of their lives?”

Dean leans back into the softness of his pillows, snorting. “You’re right but when has organised religion ever let anyone have fun?”

“No, they’re firm believers of the if I can’t have it then neither can you school of thinking. But before we let theology derail this conversation, at around what time will you come over tomorrow?”

“We’ll probably be there around 11:30? Sam said you guys stay open till 11.”

“Yeah, that works fine for me.” 

One of Dean’s socks had rolled down, leaving his calf exposed to the fall air coming in through the open windows of his room. 

He wonders if Cas owned baking themed socks. It would be a shame if he did not.

“One of you will have to accompany Sam to St. Peter’s to sign the paperwork. I’ll stay in the bakery in case there are any problems.” He says, trying to pull his brain away from wondering if Cas would consider the Spank my Buns socks he owned a hate crime. In his defense, they had been a gift. (that he had bought for himself).

Bet you want him to spank your buns, his brain finger-guns, leering.

And that’s a sharp turn to absolutely the fuck not.

“Yeah, Gabe will go with him, I don’t think there’s an option there.” Cas’ rumbling chuckle fills Dean’s ear. “Should he meet Sam at the graveyard?”

“Sam’s going to be delighted, the complete dork,” Dean responds, mirroring his easy humour. “Celeste’s on the way, so he will drop me off and then they can go together.”

There is a sound of movement and rustling over the phone, like Castiel has repositioned himself in bed.

“Poor Sam,” He sighs in jovial, mock concern. “But regardless, I look forward to seeing you tomorrow, Dean.”

“Yeah, me too.” Look maybe it is dumb and childish and will not amount to anything but Dean also does not want to hang up just yet. Cas’ sleep voice is doing a _lot_ to his decision making faculties at this point. “Your brioche was fantastic, by the way. It may be the best I’ve ever had.” He adds, entirely truthful because god, it was so fucking good, holy shit. 

A hum of surprised pleasure sneaks directly into Dean’s hippocampus. “Oh! I’m so glad you liked it, Dean.” He wishes he could see the grin he can hear in Cas’ voice. “What did you make with it?”

“French toast, obviously, that I had for dinner, a PB&J and this prosciutto, provolone and fried egg sandwich that I had been wanting to try for a while,” Dean lists, the part of him that is terrified of evaluation silently screaming that his answers are not cool enough. Fuck maybe this was the wrong line to go down.

“Dude, I fucking love savoury brioche sandwiches so much!” Cas claims, halting Dean’s spiral of anxiety. “Like, don’t get me wrong, sugar works great with it, ya know, but the richness pairs so well with anything salty enough to cut through it??? Also, prosciutto and provolone are a stellar combo. I like the choices you made, Dean.” 

Apparently he would be getting an A in being creative with brioche.

“Thank you,” Dean laughs, the evaluation-apprehension part of him fist pumping. 

“I’m disgustingly judgemental about food,” Castiel probably only half-jokes. “It’s my mandated right as a chef. I once broke up with someone because of their horrendous food opinions.”

“How bad were they?”

“They did not like garlic bread. And they cheated on me.”

Dean’s eyes widen, more at the garlic bread thing than the cheating thing. Which probably says a lot about him. “Ugh, that’s a whole fucking asshole.” He considers not saying anything else for a moment. He is not even sure if it is going to come off as too flirty. Then he decides to throw caution to the wind and regret it later if it goes ass up. “Random fact about me, I adore garlic bread.”

There. He said it.

“Not gonna lie, I would have been genuinely upset if you had also turned out to not have functioning brain cells.”

Oh??? Uh???? Did that count as flirting???

Before Dean can formulate a coherent response that does not make him sound like an eleven year old trying to talk to their crush, Cas speaks again. “Hey, so, listen, Dean, as much as I want to find out if you have any heinous culinary opinions, I have to go down and help Meg. Unless, of course, you want to bleed yourself dry by staying on the line with me while I go about my day.”

Dean would even swear on his deathbed that he definitely did not giggle right then. “No, I think I’m gonna let you go. I’ll see you soon. Have a good day.” 

“You, too. Bye, Dean.”

Dean says bye one more time and hangs up.

“I have a date with Gabe next Friday,” Sam tells Dean when he walks into their living room a while later.

“Cas approved of what I did with the bread he gave me.” Dean says, crashing down onto the couch next to his brother.

If they spend the rest of the afternoon ignoring their work and existing in a serotonin addled haze, it is nobody’s business but their own.

The knowledge that he would get to see Castiel that night is enough to propel Dean through the ordeal of waking up at six in the morning to reach the university by 8 the next day. His usual grumbling and griping is only at like, 65% which Sam wisely chooses not to comment on, lest he jinx it. He wishes Dean a nice day when he gets dropped off but texts Charlie to ask his brother about his good mood because he is an excellent friend and an evil sibling.

Which means that Dean is utterly unprepared when she accuses him of not scowling at his coffee enough after he has only spent like ten minutes in the faculty lounge.

They are sitting on one of paisley couches that litter the vast room. Being an old building, an outcome of Richardsonian Romanesque architecture of the late nineteenth century, Hodgson boasts tall ceilings and thick, wood panelled walls, decorated in warm, muted shades, much of the interior left vastly unchanged since its original construction. 

It had been commissioned by the founder of the university, Henry Hodgson, in 1887 to look as much as a castle it possibly could without actually being one. The exterior was made of undressed masonry, heavily carved and ornamented with turrets on each corner, a central courtyard and high, arched passageways and windows. The front lawn has been modified to accommodate for staff parking. Off the central structure that housed the administrative offices and the common spaces, there were five wings, separated according to specific disciplines taught in each.

Henry had been known, during his time, as a deeply learned, if eccentric scholar who had devoted his entire life to education, never getting married or having children. Anyone who cared to look beyond the heteronormative history would discover that he had also been a raging homosexual who had had the entire building made according to his “lifelong friend” and fellow academic, Nathaniel Verne’s aesthetic taste. Dean’s favourite and often overlooked fact about this dramatic show of Henry’s love was that he had had lilies and tulips carved into the doors of the main library because those were Nathaniel’s flowers of choice.

“What does that even mean?” He asks, eyeing his mug with suspicion.

“It means you’re never this chipper in the morning, especially not after a weekend, Garfield.” Charlie replies, poking Dean in the thigh with her booted foot. She is his oldest friend, having met him in high school and now they had become colleagues as well, after she had secured her position as a professor of Film and Cultural Studies in Hodgson University.

Dean bats at her ankle. “I’m not chipper,” He claims.

“Are you high?” Charlie demands, ignoring his lie. Her bright red hair is cut short, bangs held back by an Eye of Sauron bobby pin. She is wearing plaid trousers and a white button down shirt, with a black blazer that had belonged to Dean for exactly one hour before she stole it.

“No, what the fuck??” Dean looks at her with incredulity, his eyes scanning the room to make sure no one’s paying attention to them. “I’d never come to work high,” He adds, as an afterthought.

“Did you get laid, then?” Charlie waggles her eyebrows, swiping Dean’s bag away from him. She opens it, grabbing the tupperware that contains his lunch, a cold pasta salad with chicken, cherry tomatoes, cucumbers and olives with a balsamic vinaigrette that Sam had made. “Although, you would have told me if you had.”

Dean watches as she reaches into her own bag and replaces his tupperware with her own Star Wars lunch box that he had given her for her twenty-second birthday. This is a ritual she has performed every day since Dean had started bringing lunch from home.

“I did not get laid, Charlie.”

“Huh.”

She goes back to fiddling with her phone, typing furiously. 

Dean rolls his eyes and finishes his coffee. He raises a hand in greeting when Crowley, his HoD and ex-professor, walks into the lounge. He is dressed, as ever, in a black suit and dark, silk tie, beard and hair carefully scruffy.

“Hello, squirrel,” He says, patting Dean on the head. “Why do you look so happy?”

Dean groans, narrowing his eyes at their line of questioning. “I don’t??? Are you guys okay???”

Crowley sits down on the armchair facing them. “No, never. Don’t be slanderous.”

“Dean,” Charlie begins, her voice laden with unveiled wickedness and anticipation, “Tell us what you’re doing tonight.”

Dean huffs out his frustration loudly, catching on to what has been happening. “I’m not saying a fucking word. I can’t believe Sam got both of you to gang up on me like this.”

“Oh, now, now, squirrel,” Crowley says, leaning forward and intentionally deepening his accent. “It was Charlie here who texted me, not moose.”

“Spill, Dean. You know I won’t stop until you do,” Charlie adds.

Dean groans again, silently vowing revenge against Sam. “Fine. It’s a hunt, we have to kill a poltergeist at this bakery that just opened up and the one of the people who owns it is, uh, hot, that’s all.”

“What bakery? Is it Celeste?” Charlie asks, grabbing Dean’s wrist, eyes lighting up.

“Yeah, you’ve been?”

“No, not yet. Can we go there once you’re done eradicating their eldritch occupant? ”

Dean nods.

There is a conversation to be had there, about the object of Dean’s attraction but now is neither the time nor the place. 

“Thank you for that exceedingly boring answer, Dean,” Crowley says as he gets up, glancing at his watch. “I’m sure your work-date will be great. But, we must get going, we have class in ten minutes. Have a good day, Charlie.”

With that he begins to walk away and Dean goes to follow him with a “See you at lunch,” aimed at Charlie.

The rest of Dean’s morning is uneventful. His early classes go the same way as they always go, healthily balanced between students who fall asleep the moment he walks in, ones who begrudgingly try to stay awake and ones who participate so eagerly, he both respects and fears them. At lunch, Dean goes over to Charlie’s department lounge and eats one half of her turkey sandwich while she obligingly picks off the cucumbers from his salad. They hang out for an hour afterwards because both of them have a free period, sharing two Snickers bars between them while Charlie grades papers and Dean discards every revenge idea he comes up with because they sort of just make him feel a little guilty. Classes after lunch are always easier but also harder because he just wants to finish them and head home and today he is just a smidge more impatient than usual. It is still after five when he gets to leave, having been held up in a faculty meeting which he had managed to mostly zone out of.

When he picks Sam up, Dean calls him a bully, which is met by patronizing laughter and an attempted wet willie that he is able to dodge, without running the Impala off road.

It is just after six when he gets home and without much consideration for anything Dean passes out on the couch, in the lavender shirt and charcoal pants he had worn to work, shoes and jacket discarded. Sam wakes him up an hour and a half later, makes him eat a dinner that has entirely too many green things and then he goes to take a shower.

They leave their place at just past 10:30 pm and then finally, finally they are on their way to Celeste. 

Neither of them acknowledge that they are both dressed much nicer than they usually would for a hunt, Dean in a mustard cable knit sweater and dark wash jeans while Sam’s in a grey t-shirt, jeans and a green corduroy jacket.

The exterior lights of the bakery have already been shut off when they pull up, the sign on the front door turned to closed. But the gleam of the bulbs filtering out from inside, making Celeste look soft and blurred, an island of red brick in a sea of black, lit by distant starlight.

Meg greets them when they enter, sitting with her legs crossed on the counter, dressed in another hoodie, canary yellow with knives embroidered on it and white joggers.

“Your mans is helping Clarence carry the last of the breakables upstairs,” She says, pointing her cellphone at Sam. “They’ll be down in a moment.”

“Um, thanks,” Sam’s eyes dart down to the floor and Dean can almost visualise the way his brain fidgets.

“How are you doing, Meg?” He asks, instead, setting his bag down on the counter beside her.

“Nice sweater,” She replies, giving him an exaggerated once over. “Clarence loves warm tones.”

“Um, thanks,” Dean’s eyes also dart down to the floor and this time, Sam can visualise the way his brain fidgets.

They are saved from the burgeoning awkward silence by the Novak siblings walking in through the door, the tinkle of the bell signaling their arrival.

“Hey! You’re already here!” The younger Novak calls in greeting, a few steps ahead of his brother.

“Yeah, there wasn’t much traffic,” Dean replies. 

Castiel’s Scooby Doo sweatshirt is faded, the hems frayed and so very soft looking, Dean wants to reach out and touch it. Next to him Gabriel is dressed in what must count as garments in some universe. If Dean had to describe it, he would call it peach. Maybe. 

“Y’all do need to get going, though. It’s a bit of a drive and we don’t want to keep whoever’s putting in overtime waiting for too long,” Dean adds.

It is almost comical, the way Sam springs into action, jerking towards Gabriel with a blush tinting his cheekbones. “Uh, so, let’s head out, then.”

“Take the keys, champ,” Dean remarks, throwing the car keys towards his brother who catches them midair. 

They are almost at the door, having said their see you laters when Meg jumps down from the counter.

“Hmm, you know what, I kinda feel like cockblocking I think I’m going to go join you guys at the cemetery,” She states, a devious smirk on her face.

“I’m hurt that you think I’d ever let your presence get in the way, Masters,” Gabe counters, putting one hand between Sam’s shoulder blades, which only makes the younger man go more red.

He shoots Dean a panicked look and is only met with a thumbs up in response. Sometimes, when Mercury was in retrograde for Sam, the universe would act in Dean’s favour.

“I’m calling shotgun, Garbanzo,”

Gabriel pauses with his hand on the door handle and turns the full force of an overdramatic death glare on Meg. “You,” He says, “are pure evil and God will not forgive you for your sins.”

“I’m a homosexual, God should be asking me for forgiveness,” She announces, cheerfully, patting Gabriel’s cheek. “Don’t worry I’ll cockblock Clarence next time. It’s my duty to oppress all cismen.”

Castiel inches closer to Dean, a long suffering expression on his face. “Please leave,” He mutters. “I don’t want to be around Luca anymore and you guys are only extending his stay here.”

“Don’t play with fire, Clarence, I can still change my mind.”

But then they do finally go, with Sam waving a shaky goodbye to Dean and Meg beaming in unabashed joy as Gabriel climbs into the backseat.

“Poor Sam,” Dean comments as he watches the Impala drive away.

Castiel shrugs.

The two of them walk back inside the bakery.

Dean goes to the counter and pulls his sawed-off shotgun, already loaded with rock-salt, out of his duffle. 

“Why do we need a gun?” Castiel asks, alarmed. “Do you plan on shooting the ghost???”

“It’s got salt bullets that can deter spirits,” Dean informs him, keeping his tone as reassuring as possible. “It’s just an in case of an emergency thing. Don’t worry, we probably won’t even need to use it.” 

Cas eyes the weapon with wary suspicion. “Not the biggest fan of that or having a gun in here.”

“It’s a hazard of the job,” Dean says. “But I’m trained to handle it so it’s safe, I promise.”

Castiel accepts that with a reluctant nod.

Dean offers him an apology, sincere, the weapons thing is Dean’s least favourite part of the job, as well. Mentally, he makes a note to warn people ahead of time about the firearms they occasionally have to use for whenever their next case pops up.

“It’s alright,” Cas replies, “I wasn’t prepared to be spending the rest of the night with a shotgun staring at me. This whole situation has kinda thrown me for a loop, if I’m honest. And it’s all happening so fast???? Gabe literally said he was hoping we’d get to keep Mr. Giordano over Halloween.” His words come out in a rush, tinged with a sense of justifiable perturbation.

Dean tackles the impending breakdown Castiel may be heading into without warning the same way he deals with everything. He makes a dad joke. 

“Well, uh, if Sam fails tonight for some reason, I’m sure Celeste will be a great forever home for Mr. Giordano.”

A short, hysterical cackle bursts out of the baker. 

“I know this is overwhelming, Cas, but we’ve got the horror movie front handled, I promise.” Dean murmurs, soft and in his most considerate professor voice. “It’ll be okay.”

It is the least Dean can do, to try and bolster whatever bit of calm Castiel is holding onto, in the middle of the clusterfuck that his life has been over the past few weeks.

“I’m not even lying when I say if this bitch-ass ghost wasn’t hell bent on fucking my shit up and trying to make me go broke by throwing around everything I own I would have just accepted that my building came free with like, a cranky dead grandfather,” Castiel says, sounding less like he might stress cry. “Do you want something to drink? I’m going to make some tea.”

“Sure, I could have some tea. What kind?”

“We have a bunch of different kinds but there’s a peppermint liqorice one that I think you’ll like.”

“Cool, I’ll try that then.”

Castiel goes behind the counter, turning on the coffee maker to heat up water.

“You can’t really make friends with poltergeists. They don’t really retain their humanity the way benevolent spirits do.” Dean states as he _does not_ watch Cas bend down to get two enamel mugs and a box of tea bags. 

“Way to ruin my dreams, Dean. Why do you hate fun?” The baker says, deadpan. He mock-frowns at Dean, nose scrunching up.

Dean swiftly and violently banishes the adjectives that try to creep into his brain.

“You were literally just complaining about property damage like two seconds ago.”

Cas lifts up one indignant shoulder. Behind him, the water bubbles.

“You know what, I fully understand why he’s mad, he probably hates the way I work my dough. I bet you he took one look at my stand mixer and decided that I don’t deserve any rights.” He quips, as he switches the coffee machine off. He waits a beat or two for the water to come down from boiling, placing a tea bag in each cup in that time. Then he pours the water into them.

“He probably thinks it isn’t real bread unless you dislocate your shoulder kneading it.” Dean reflects, accepts the tea handed to it. The scent of peppermint is fresh and comforting and he inhales deeply. “God, I love how this smells.”

Castiel smiles. “It’s my favourite, after chamomile and jasmine.”

Dean takes another inhale of the sweet steam emanating from his mug.

“Hey, on an entirely unrelated note, I can wax poetic about how good your bread is for the rest of my life, so Luca can truly go fuck himself for not approving of your stand mixer.”

“Oh, stop, you’re going to give me a self-esteem,” Castiel chuckles, deep and rumbly, teeth glinting.

Dean is a grown adult. He is not affected by such things.

He blows on the surface of his tea instead to hide the grin that is threatening to flourish on his lips.

“Do you think you might be up for a midnight snack?” Castiel asks, taking a sip of his tea.

Dean wonders how Castiel does not burn his tongue. He will not be drinking until the liquid in his mug is lukewarm. 

“Literally always. What’s on your mind?” He says, bright and enthusiastic. Food’s easier and safer to talk about than Dean trying to navigate the neurons that are misfiring in his brain right now.

Cas places his mug on the counter, a line appearing between his brows as he considers his options. In the illumination of the room, his eyes appear aquamarine. “I was thinking, a grilled cheese? We can either do a chorizo, cheddar, jalapeno and monterey jack one or a caramelised onion, bacon and Gruyère one?” 

Dean’s brain comes to a screeching halt.

“Cas,” He says emphatically, “Those are called melts.”

And thus, my good folks, we have arrived at the rancid food opinions portion of the evening.

Castiel looks like he is in physical pain. “ You’re wrong and you should be ashamed of yourself,” He declares, holding Dean’s gaze in a glare. 

A lesser man would have backed down from the argument. Said lesser man would be wrong. 

“ No???? If what you’re talking about is a grilled cheese then, what is a melt?”

This is the hill Dean has chosen to die on.

(Dean is, obviously, also wrong but alas, we are not without our flaws.)

“A show of cowardice,” Cas asserts, triumphant in his faultless belief. “Now, come on, let me give you some wisdom.

“Can’t believe you have a whole bakery and still don’t know what a grilled cheese is but I guess we all have our hubris.” Dean remarks, entirely incorrect in his judgement.

Cas rewards him with a look of pure, righteous fury. “It is dangerous to needle me, Dean.” He warns, “I am not above making you watch while I eat without giving you a single morsel.”

Now, one is entitled to their garbage views but Dean has also learnt when to pick his battles. So, he shuts up and follows Castiel to the metal door, carrying his still un-sipped tea in hand.

They step into a short corridor with four doors. The two on the right are labelled as gender neutral restrooms, the ones have no signs.

Castiel pushes open the first door on the left, which turns out to be the kitchen. Dean assumes the last one must be an office or storage room of some sort.

The kitchen is larger than he had expected, maybe half the size of the main room of the bakery. It is decked out in stainless steel counters, an industrial refrigerator and a three oven deck next to a cooking range. The back wall houses the pantry, storage racks and two large sinks. A pastry table and a baker’s bench are on the right, with two proofing chambers next to them. Scattered on various flat surfaces are pieces of equipment, about half of which Dean can definitely attempt to name with confidence. 

It is not the first commercial kitchen he has been in but (not attributable to the owner, certainly) he kind of wants to live in it. Just a little bit.

“I like your kitchen,” He says, taking in the impressive surroundings. 

“So you are capable of rational thinking,” Cas replies, straight-faced. 

Dean breaks out into an incredulous grin.

He, at long last, now that it is just room temperature peppermint water, takes a sip of his tea, marvelling at the coolness of the menthol being cut through by the sweetness of the liquorice.

“Oh, this is good,” He observes, taking a bigger gulp.

“I’m adding ‘purposefully drinks tepid beverages’ to your list of sins.”

“Not everyone enjoys burning their mouth, you heathen.” 

They approach the central island, which has a pan rack hanging above it. On the wall behind them are a row of sharp, gleaming knives.

“Tell me about your favourite one,” He turns to Castiel with a look of unadulterated glee, motioning at the blades with his eyes.

“I think that’s the only normal thing you’ve said all evening.” Castiel chuckles, his face morphing into amusement.

He picks out a thirteen-inch Santoku with a polished wood handle and seven inch blade that _shines_ in the lights of the kitchen. 

Dean has a particular appreciation for stabby things. That appreciation only increases tenfold when beautiful stabby things are held by beautiful, blue-eyed bakers with craft roughened hands.

“I got this after I finished college, it was the first really expensive tool that I bought, you know? So fucking worth it, though. I love this knife more than my own siblings, at times.” Castiel says.

And then, in a show of trust that Dean will forever cherish, he hands the knife to Dean.

If it was not slightly illegal and much too revealing, Dean would have moaned.

“It’s gorgeous,” Dean carefully, reverently runs his finger along the sharpened edge. 

“Thank you,” Castiel smiles. “My favourite one’s upstairs, though, another Santoku but it was a gift from my mother. I’ll show it to you if we ever get the chance. Now, are we going with the chorizo or the caramelised onion?”

Dean returns the knife to its place. He loathes to let it go but apparently propriety or whatever. “Will you grill the caramelised onion one in bacon grease?”

“You’re almost making me want to forgive you for your foul beliefs about grilled cheese.”

Castiel gathers his ingredients from an extensively well arranged pantry and refrigerator, making Dean carry the cheese and the tub of caramelised onions back to the island while he brings the cheese, bacon and a bread box. He grabs a chef’s knife from the wall, this one with a shorter blade, a chopping board and a cheese grater which he passes to Dean.

They work together, Castiel chopping up and frying the bacon in a cast iron skillet while Dean works on the Gruyère. 

“So, how’d you end up becoming a baker?” Dean asks, _not_ noticing the way Castiel’s pants shape themselves around his thighs.

He also does not accidentally almost grate his thumb along with the cheese.

In the pan, the bacon sizzles enticingly, filling the kitchen with the smoky aroma.

“I was a very antsy kid, couldn’t really get myself to sit still and when I got like, excessively fidgety and restless, like if I was close to scaling the walls with my bare hands, mom made me help her in the kitchen. I fucking, you know, fell in love with working with dough because it used to shut my brain up so well and I never felt like I was going I was going to vibrate out of skin while I was cooking.” He shakes the skillet, tossing the bacon bits around so that they flip and cook on both sides.

It is a pity that he’s doing it while wearing long sleeves, Dean thinks.

““Plus, what with my tendency to hyperfixate, I could also do it for hours on end and then it just became my go to coping mechanism for everything.” Castiel continues, begins to pile the cut up bacon on a paper towel lined steel plate. He brings the plate to the counter. “I liked studying but I fucking hated school and when I had to pick something to do, it just made sense for me to choose this.” 

Taking four slices of white bread out of the box, he gives two of them to Dean and they assemble a sandwich each, cheese, then onion and bacon and then more cheese on top.

They head back to the stove.

“How’d you become a ghostbuster?” Castiel asks.

“Oh, you know, my family’s always done it so we just ended up inheriting the business. Nothing interesting, really.”

The sandwiches hit the skillet with a hiss of grease. It smells fucking phenomenal.

“Would you have done something else if you hadn’t taken over your family’s ghost hunting enterprise?”

“No, this is, uh, more of a side gig for me. I’m a professor, primarily,” Dean says with nonchalance.

Castiel spins a full ninety degrees, with the wooden spatula aimed directly at Dean’s face. “You’re a whole academic??? What do you teach?”

“Folklore, Demonology and Occultism,” Dean laughs, humorously taken aback at the fact that Cas was more shocked by his completely normal day job than he was by Dean coming from a family of ghost hunters.

“Holy shit, really? What did you study?” He raises a curious eyebrow, stepping away from the stove so that they are facing each other directly.

Dean leans his hip against the counter, drinking some more of his tea. “I have a Masters in English Literature, as well as one in Occult Studies and Demonology. I’m going to do a PhD at some point but I haven’t really figured out in what yet.” 

“Oh my god, you dweebus!” Cas exclaims, exuberant. “I can’t believe you’re a whole nerd. This is wonderful. I’m going to bully you so much.”

“I’m glad you can find amusement in my existence,” Dean is charmed by the mirth in Castiel’s eyes. 

“Is Sam also like you?”

“Sam’s a bigger nerd, actually.” And Dean will continue to believe so for the rest of his life.

Castiel flips the sandwiches over, the crust perfectly golden on the finished side. “Literally not possible but carry on.”

“Rude,” Dean alleges, without any heat behind it. “He works as a translator of ancient languages. Sumerian, Akkadian, stuff like that.”

“Your family is insane,” Castiel states. He brings up to wooden serving boards from one of the cupboards. 

“We are also technically heirs of a cult.” This, admittedly, Dean specifically says with deliberate casualness.

Castiel stops midway through slicing the sandwiches. “No. absolutely the fuck not. We are going to continue this conversation at a later date. Tell me one boring thing about you.” He flashes a look of complete disbelief and near total awe at the revelation.

Dean laughs again, deciding not to provoke the poor guy further and instead watches cheese ooze out onto the serving board with a feeling akin to euphoria. 

They walk back into the bakery, food in hand and sit down at one of the tables.

“I don’t like cake,” Dean answers, just as Castiel arranges himself in the chair with both feet pulled up.

“That’s not normal??? What the fuck, you absolute weirdo????” Cas nearly shrieks, no longer prepared for whatever bizarre thing will come out of Dean’s mouth next. “I cannot believe I let you hang out in my kitchen.” He gripes.

Dean is having an immense amount of fun watching the man react.

“Tell me something boring about you then,” Dean says and god, it is a little unreal, that amount of fun he has managed to have during such an otherwise mundane conversation.

Castiel pokes at the sandwich with his finger, makes sure it is not too warm and takes a careful bite out of it. For that moment, they both remain speechless, their attention held by the unparalleled brilliance of the cheese stretch they are experiencing. They share identical grins in response.

“I have a very slight pineapple allergy,” Castiel says, after swallowing.

Which, huh.

“That _is_ boring,” Dean responds, because he was not expecting a straight answer.

“I fucking told you!” Cas rolls his eyes.

Dean bite into his sandwich and. 

The sweetness of the onions combined with the nuttiness of the Gruyère and contrasted with the salty richness of bacon on the absolute perfection that is Castiel’s bread-

Now, Dean is not a man of faith and he never will be but this, this. This is as close to a religious experience he’s ever going to have. 

It must, as it should, show on his face because when he looks at Cas, the baker is flushed, a shy, happy smile softening his features.

“Holy fuck, Cas, this is an amazing grilled cheese,” He says, before taking another mouthful and savouring it.

“Good enough to convert you, it seems,” Castiel jokes, playful vindication in his tone, as Dean clocks his words.

“You’re right, I’m sorry I doubted you.”

Castiel chuckles, short and ridiculously sunny.

It nestles in a warm part of Dean’s mind.

“So, tell me about how you ended up owning this place,” Dean asks, after he has managed to finish a quarter of his sandwich in like, three bites.

“Oh, my mom lives about two hours away, we wanted to be near her and this building was super fucking cheap,” Cas replies. “Honestly, we should have taken that warning sign for what it was,” He adds, his exasperation evident.

“You’re close with your mom?” 

“Oh, very. My dad was a huge dick and both Gabe and I pretty much just stuck to our mom as much as we could. We only got closer after she left my dad and adopted Meg.” Dean observes with detached clinical interest as the baker licks away a crumb from his top lip. “What about you?”

“My mom died when I was four so I never knew her at all.” Dean takes another bite and chews. This is an easy conversation now, a habit grown with time. “Sam and I basically grew up under our Uncle Bobby’s care, he’s a hunter too.”

“Your dad wasn’t in the picture?”

“He was but he didn’t do any good.” Dean snorts because oof, not the can of worms to open right now. “He passed away in July. Huge fuckin’ relief there, let me tell you that.”

Castiel raises the remaining half of his sandwich in a toast. “May he rest in distress, then.”

Dean taps it with his half.

“Are Meg and Gabriel also bakers?” He maybe should have slowed down the speed at which he was eating because his food is almost gone now and Dean is not ready for this goodbye.

“Meg’s a chef so she works in the kitchen with me. Gabe works out front but he’s also the one who does all the boring business stuff.”

For the first time during the night, Dean stops short at something Cas tells him. “He’s the boring business guy????” He inquires, unable to match the man with his job.

“I fucking know right. Dude’s such a ball of chaos but he’s also like, literally our accountant,” The baker does not even bother to hide the satisfaction he feels at having been able to stump Dean.

“Oh, now, I understand why he likes Sam.”

As they speak, Dean’s phone vibrates.

**Sammy:**

**We’re done. Do you want to wait till we get there to remove the wards?**

“Speaking of my brother, he says they’re at the cemetery.” Dean opens up their chat window. “Do you want to wait for them till we clean away the wards?” He asks, finishing the last bite of his sandwich. 

Castiel raises his eyebrows, wiping his fingers with one of the napkins on the table. “Will it be a bad idea if we do it now?”

“Not necessarily. If Giordano’s still around, we should be able to handle it. I’ve made it out of worse.” Dean shrugs, looking Cas in the eye.

“Okay then let’s do it now. I just want this to be over.”

**Dean:**

**doing it now**

“Let’s go.”

They leave their platters and mugs on the table to deal with later. Reaching the counter, Dean digs around in his duffle, handing Castiel a rag and a bottle of cleaning solution, grabbing the same for himself, along with his EMF meter.

“Let the sigil on the kitchen door remain. Should something happen, we’ll want the activity to be contained in one place.”

Castiel nods. “I’ll get the one on the wall, then.”

Dean flicks on the EMF meter, resting it beside the till and gets to work.

It takes them a few minutes to wipe away all the paint, Castiel coming over to join Dean because he finishes first.

Then, they wait.

.

.

.

The EMF shrieks, loud and shrill, the needle spiking all the way.

Dean grabs his shotgun.

The lights begin to flicker.

“Ho-” Cas is cut off by the sound of their used dishes being violently flung across the room, crashing into the wall behind the bread rack. Being metal and wood, they remain intact.

“It’s the cashbox, bastard’s hooked to it,” Dean informs him, reaching out to pull Castiel close to him. “We need to get behind the counter, stay behind me.”

Around them, the bakery groans, a low, resounding roar that rattles the very bones of the building. Three of the bulbs blow out, the abrupt popping of the filaments startling a, “Motherfucker, what do you have against my lights???” out of Castiel.

“Cas, grab my bag, we’ll have to read out an incantation to banish him.”

One of the smaller plants is pitched at them. 

“Duck!” Dean calls out just in time, as the projectile hits the wall behind them, the terracotta pot shattering into pieces.

“What the fuck, you flaming fucking trash pile????” Cas screeches in anger, shrinking closer to Dean, one hand fisting in his sweater while yanking the duffel to them with the other.

Another one of the plants is lobbed in their direction, smashing less than a foot away from them.

“Just be glad he hasn’t been able to throw the chairs or tables yet.”

A thunderous boom erupts and morphs into banging that seems to come from within the walls.

“Fuck, I hadn’t thought of that!” Cas says, panicking.

They drop down to their knees as soon as they get behind the counter. 

More lights burst, plunging the room into alternating complete and semi-darkness as the remaining bulbs continue to flash.

Cas huddles as close to Dean as he possibly can without climbing directly into his lap.

(Later, much, much later they will both revisit the fact that Castiel was definitely milking as much physical proximity as he could get out of it.) 

Dean pulls the grimoire out of the bag, flipping hastily to the banishing spells. He finds the one they use for poltergeists and begins reading it out, ancient Latin flowing out of him in clipped syllables. He is about halfway done with it when Castiel shouts his name and then a solid punch lands on his jaw, sending him falling back, hitting his head against the counter, teeth cutting into his lip.

“What the fuck!” He exclaims just as Cas begins a chant of ‘Fuck, fuck, fuck, Dean, what’s happening, I didn’t do that-”

Castiel’s right arm rears back on it’s own, aiming another strike but he grabs onto the wrist with his left hand. Dean crawls back, putting distance between himself and Cas, the book still clutched in his hand.

“Bodily manipulation, just hold on, okay, keep trying to fight him off,” Dean says as he goes back to reading the spell out loud, faster, the words running together into one. Blood seeps from his cut, stinging his left eye, obscuring his vision but he soldiers through.

The invisible force seizes Castiel’s hair, jolting his head back and using that momentum to propel his body forward, sending him crashing into Dean, eliciting pained grunts as the wind gets knocked out of both of them.

“Fuck, shit, fuck, fuck-” Is all Cas gets out as he’s pulled back by his hair again, clean off of Dean who continues his intonation, almost at end, almost, almost-

Suddenly, just as it had started, everything stops and the power holding Castiel aloft disappears and he crumbles to the ground, only stopping himself from crashing face first into the floor by reaching his arms out to break the fall.

Dean is next to him instantaneously, helping him sit up.

“I’m so sorry, fuck, Dean, I shouldn’t-” He begins but Dean shushes him.

“It’s okay, it’s okay, I promise, don’t worry,” He consoles the baker as he catalogues Cas for any visible injuries. “Take deep breaths for me, yes? You’re alright, it’s over for now. Just breathe, Cas.”

“We should get you some first aid,” Castiel says eventually, after he’s calmed down, sagging against Dean’s hold. Dean rubs a hand up and down his bicep. “Come on, we’ve got a kit in the office. I’ll start crying if we keep sitting here.”

He leads Dean into the back, to the final unmarked door, which turns out to be a small office with a table, a chair and a storm of boxes and papers strewn on every available surface. 

Dean calls Sam up, getting him up to speed on what happened, letting him know that no one was majorly hurt and they will have to draw the protection sigils again.

“Was it the, y’know?” Sam asks, once Dean is done talking.

“Yep,” Dean replies as Castiel produces a faded blue first aid box from somewhere behind the table. “Listen, we’ll talk when you get here. Cas needs to clean this cut up.”

“See you in fifteen,” Sam says before disconnecting.

“Sit down,” Cas motions to the table.

Dean spots an empty corner on the table, ignoring the chair because it also has boxes piled on top of it and takes a seat.

Castiel places the medical kit next to his hip and opens it up. He disinfects his hand with the rubbing alcohol.

“They’ll be here soon.” Dean mentions as he watches the baker take some cotton and soak it in antiseptic.

The office is lit by an Edison bulb, just like the ones outside and in the golden luminescence, everything suddenly seems very warm and heady. Castiel steps closer to Dean, steps into the space between his thighs.

“This will sting,” He murmurs, gently dabbing at the wound above his brow, free hand sinking into his hair to tip his head back and hold him still.

It does sting, but Dean’s flinch is minimal, his awareness focused elsewhere, on the heat of Castiel’s thumb on his cheekbone, long fingers splayed out into his hair.

“You’ve got a hell of a right hook, ya know,” He says, just to keep his own stomach at bay.

“I used to be a boxer,” Castiel smiles and up close, Dean can see the way his corners of his eyes crinkle, the tiny indent on his nose, a scar below his left eye.

“Explain.”

“My human bag of shit of a dad thought cooking was too girly so he put me in boxing when I was ten.” Once the bleeding has stopped, Castiel uses his index finger to apply antibacterial ointment to the gash. “Which was such a funny backfire because he put me in a place where you constantly get thrown around and pinned down by sweaty, half naked dudes.”

He places a sterile gauze pad on top and then has Dean hold it while he cuts up two strips of tape. “Needless to say, I realised I was gay really fucking quick when I was fourteen and suddenly the reality of the boys’ locker room hit me. On the upside, though, I never got beaten up at school because I was the district junior amatuer champion when I was 15.” He sticks the gauze down and goes to wet some more cotton. 

“Are you saying your homophobic dad accidentally caused your queer awakening?” Dean raises his unhurt eyebrow. 

Castiel turns back to face him. The cut on Dean’s lip is miniscule and does not really need attention but he cleans it anyway, fingertips brushing the bottom curve of Dean’s mouth. 

Dean winces when the alcohol touches him, the skin more tender here. Castiel cups his jaw, strokes a comforting thumb along the hollow of his cheek..

Jesus, they are standing so, so close together. Dean presses his palms against the wood beneath him. He can smell the same cologne as last time on Castiel.

“Absolutely. My first boyfriend was the boy I beat at the district championship. We dated all the way through college, actually.” He grins, a small thing and Dean matches it with one of his own.

“Oh, so your dad’s plan _backfired_ backfired. That’s good to hear.”

“All done,” Cas says as he gathers everything up in the packet that contained the gauze pad, then shuts the box. He does not move out of the embrace of Dean’s legs.

“Thank you.”

“Shut up, I’m sending you back home with more bread just so you know,” Cas grumbles, eyebrows pushed together.

“You don’t-”

“Not a word, you will let me apologize to you by giving you carbs and you will like it,” Cas cuts him off, prodding Dean in the chest with a finger. 

He has always been a huge fan of ever so slightly aggressive apologies.

“Yes, chef,” He says, light-heated, shifts a little, just so his jeans brush against Castiel’s pants.

“Horrible, disgusting, I almost wish I’d punched you harder,” Cas’ voice is barely above a whisper, so smooth and rich and then his lips quirk up at the corners.

Dean is very, very close to losing his resolve.

“No you don’t,” And he sounds just as soft, faintly breathy.

“Fine but I’m only admitting it under duress. It’s not gonna hold up in court,” His finger up Dean’s sweater, coming to rest against the cleft in his chin. He leans closer, a scant movement but fuck, it is a lot right now, what with the quickening pace of Dean’s heart and the way his eyes are unfocusing, so close that he can see specks of gunmetal in Castiel’s irises, trapped in a bubble of each other’s heat.

And the fucker pulls away, grinning with uncontrolled mischief. “Come on, I can hear the others outside.”

Dean huffs out a laugh, aiming a quiet “Oh, fuck you,” towards Castiel which only makes him beam harder.

When they go outside, after discarding their medical waste, the others are already there. Sam has finished painting on the wards again and the remnants of the plants have been swept to one side.

“Oh, so, Giordano didn’t manage to take you two along with him,” Meg snarks while Sam gives Dean a _look._

Dean narrows his eyes at both of them.

They are standing at the car, Dean holding a ciabatta loaf that Cas packed up for him, duffel thrown over his shoulder.

“I’m so fucking sorry that motherfucking shit stain posessed me and made me punch you,” He says, still disgruntled.

“Cas, you literally got thrown around like a bad baseball pitch, please stop worrying about me. it’s okay, I promise. This isn’t even the first time this has happened to me,” Dean’s very tempted to reach out and chuck Castiel under the chin.

Castiel’s frown only deepens. “Well, I absolutely hate that tidbit,” He wraps a hand around Dean’s wrist. In the 3am cold of late autumn, Dean feels exceptionally warm. “You’ll let me know you’re healing up, yes? I owe you so much apology bread.”

Behind them, Meg snorts.

Sam and Gabriel smirk at them, as if they have not spent all night glued to each other.

“You don’t owe me anything. This is my job.” Dean reassures, rolling his eyes at their spectators. “But I’ll keep you updated about my busted lip and minor head injury.”

“Okay, good night, Dean.” He squeezes Dean’s wrist. “Thank you so very much for all your help, really.”

“You’re welcome, Cas. We’ll come by sometime this week with the hex bags for your apartment. ‘Night.”

“God, y’all fucking found matching dorks,” Meg comments.

Castiel flips her off.

That night, Dean goes to bed with an ibuprofen controlled headache, a bruised jaw, a swollen lip and the touch of Castiel’s hand lingering on his cheek.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> grilled cheese purists stay mad


End file.
